Paint
by Taelr
Summary: This work was inspired by Beethoven's Symphony No. 6 in F Minor, "Pastorale" I heard it the other day and just pictured paint flying through the air in slow motion and this happened. This is the first part of a series, and you can read them in order or out of order or both or just one and they'll still make sense. Or I hope they will, anyways.
1. With the Paint of Our Veins

**Stiles is trying to find ways to make Derek mad. And when he finds a few full buckets of paint in one of the rooms of Hale House - which Derek is rebuilding - who can blame him for getting into a little trouble? So maybe he paints Derek's bedroom and maybe he flings paint at the walls instead of painting it on like a normal person. And maybe Derek comes back while Stiles is still in the middle of his little project. Things happen. Stiles can't be blamed.**

Derek used to be scary. Really. Stiles used to have nightmares about the guy bursting into his room and tearing his throat out as he slept. And other horrifying things. Nausea-inducing things. But now things have changed. Derek has been working with Scott and Stiles for a long time, and after everything Stiles has realized that Derek's really not as scary as he first appeared. Actually, Derek's kind of hot. Kind of really hot in that _I'm-terrifying-and-huge-and-muscular-and-my-stubble-makes-me-look-particularly-edible-but-I'm-also-a-dangerous-supernatural-beast-so-fear-me_ kind of way. Which is bad. Really bad. Because at first it was just that time Stiles began noticing that Derek's biceps are like as big around as Stiles' thigh. Or that time Derek slammed Stiles up against a wall in frustration – whoa, not that kind of frustration, much to Stiles' disappointment – and Stiles actually noticed when Derek's eyes flicked down to his lips. His _lips_. Come on, man! Who even does that? Or that time Stiles and Derek woke up tied to a chair and Derek was on Stiles' lap and aside from the crushing manweight and the terror that whoever had done this to them was about to come back, Stiles Jr. decided that because Derek's ass was sitting on him, it was now happy time? Yeah. Not happy time.

At any rate, Stiles never even had a big gay understanding. Because he wasn't into _guys_. He was into Derek. That was it, literally. Derek was the only guy who ever appealed to him like that. Like, ever. And to make it worse Stiles couldn't even talk to Scott about these things, because when they used to talk about Derek it was Scott saying that he wasn't such a bad dude even if he was weird and Stiles spent most of his breath pleading with Scott to just kill him or get rid of him already because Derek scared the hell out of him. Basically Stiles used to be scared of Derek – like, _scared shitless_ scared – but now he was just pissed with him.

What was even up with Derek anyways? Dude had crazy mad eyebrow game. And really nice, really toned muscles. And really tan skin that he seemed to have no qualms with showing off regularly and to no one in particular. And really hazel eyes that couldn't even be described as green because _green_ was too plain and just didn't cover it. And dark hair and nice lips and great thighs and just . . . Yup. So maybe Stiles had a big fat crush on Derek Hale. And maybe he was pissed because Derek couldn't just be regular hot. Oh, no. No, he had to be like _super-mega-ultra-look-at-me-I'm-a-flipping-werewolf_ hot. So hot that Stiles didn't even like thinking about it because if Lydia martin was out of his league then Derek Hale was so out of his universe. It was so far from possible and Derek was so far from even _tolerating_ Stiles that it wasn't even amusing to let himself fantasize, because that just ended painfully.

So the pack got closer and Derek started to renovate and rebuild what was left of the Hale house, and sometimes Isaac and Scott helped him but most days they had school or training or teenage things to do and Derek was left to himself. Stiles knows this because he pays attention, so he knows things. And because maybe he sometimes goes over and pointedly _does not_ help Derek, unless leaning against the wall or sitting on the floor and talking Derek's ear off constitutes as helping Derek. In which case, he helps Derek _a lot_. He would help Derek, really, but the guy is stubborn as hell and refuses to _ask_ for help. A simple, "This is heavy, Stiles," or "Can you help me with this, Stiles?" or "Hand me that box of nails, Stiles," or "Grab that end of the board, Stiles," would be all it took. But does Derek ever say anything even remotely like that? Nope. He never says much, actually, usually just looks annoyed by Stiles' rambling and doesn't say anything. Which is fine by Stiles. Because does he have to be there with Derek? Nope. But is he anyways, because he's a supportive member of the pack and because he cares? Yep. Okay, so maybe it's more because Derek usually works in a wifebeater and too-tight jeans and gets all dirt-smudged and sweat-coated and flexes his muscles and shit, and Stiles really can't seem to stay away. But that's beside the point. Stiles is just a caring friend, that's all. Really. At least _Derek_ thinks so.

This is like the whole Lydia thing all over again. The innocent crush turned mindless obsession. The hidden but absolute adoration on Stiles' end of things and the utter ignorance and obliviousness from the other side. The way even _his dad_ knows. I mean what? Stiles can hide werewolves and kanimas and all manner of supernatural shit from his dad – or he _could_, because they told his dad everything and now the sheriff is in the know – but apparently he can't hide his stupid, huge, messy crush. The differences between now and when Stiles was head over heels for Lydia are few and far between, but they do exist. The thing is, Lydia pretended Stiles didn't exist. At least Derek acknowledges Stiles as a member of the pack, however unappreciative and badly done that acknowledgement may be. There's also the fact that Stiles wasn't really in love with Lydia so much as he was in love with the idea of her. But with Derek, it's different. Maybe because he actually knows Derek to a certain extent and is around him enough that he knows things about Derek. He isn't just in love with the idea of Derek, no, he's in love _with_ _Derek_. Yeah, he just let himself think those words. God, he had it so bad.

So yeah, Stiles was pissed. Because Derek had so many issues and was so messed up and scarred, but he was still so _perfect_. And Stiles was messed up too, wasn't he? After the nogitsune and the alpha pack and everything else they were all pretty messed up. But Stiles wasn't perfect. He was just Stiles. And Derek was so far out of his league and . . . yeah, we've already been through this. So Stiles was angry because Derek was there, and Derek was still learning to let go of his past, was still caught up in a lot of pain and self-hate and it was so obvious to Stiles, and Stiles was the only one who really saw it and wanted to help him and to just be there for him. Stiles was the only person who really would put Derek before himself, always, but of course Derek couldn't see that. And of course Stiles, the only person who would ever want to treat Derek the way Derek really deserved, would never get that chance.

Stiles' fear had turned to adoration, which had morphed sickeningly and slowly into anger and frustration. So maybe he talked Derek's ear off or occasionally did things to really piss Derek off. Was he really to blame for venting his frustration?

It made perfect sense, then, when Stiles walked into the Hale house one Saturday and decided that it wouldn't be a bad idea to start painting the place since Derek hadn't arrived yet. To be fair, it was like the whole thing was laid out for him. He walked in and then through the house, looking around for where Derek would inevitably be in one room or another, fixing this, building that, painting this, arranging or planning that. Only Derek wasn't. And the upstairs bedroom closest to the stairs, the one that Stiles had figured out used to be Derek's once upon a time and the one that Derek had been working extra hard on restoring, had three huge buckets of paint in it. Huge buckets. One of them was white, for the trim Derek had been working on, presumably, and the other two were different shades of gray. One was dark gray, like storm clouds about to pour out rain, but it wasn't too dark or close to black. The other gray was so light it was almost bluish-white, and Stiles wondered whether Derek was planning for a darker ceiling with light walls or the other way around.

Stiles didn't wonder long, though, because a minute later he noticed a set of painting supplies beside the buckets of paint. A paint roller and several different sizes of paint brushes were just sitting there, practically calling his name. Stiles couldn't resist. Like always, he'd worn clothes that he could work in, because maybe he was still hoping that this time Derek might actually ask him for help and _Stiles_ would come home sweaty and dirt-smudged and sore because he'd actually worked for once. So painting in the shirt and jeans he'd chosen? Yeah, not a problem. Derek had this weird thing about shoes in the "new" house, too, so Stiles had left them just inside the door. All he had to do was go back downstairs and set his phone down on his shoes and he was good to go.

He did one more quick check around the house to make sure that Derek really wasn't around – he wasn't – and then he dashed up the stairs and into the room again. He probably shouldn't be doing this. Okay, so he really shouldn't be doing this. It was Derek's room, his most private and personal and precious room in the entire house, and Stiles was not only invading that space, he was _decorating_ it. Without Derek. Somehow that thought just spurred him on.

He opened the white first, snatching up the biggest paintbrush and dipping it in. He made sure he had way too much paint on the brush before he lifted it up, swinging it around and holding it tightly so that the paint splattered across the wall in front of him. He had a moment's doubt and regret, already picturing the look on Derek's face when he saw it, but then he just used that picture to get him going. Soon there were white splatters and drops and explosions all over the ceiling, walls, and floor around him, so he set down the paintbrush and closed the bucket of white paint. Time to move on to light gray. He repeated the process with the gray, setting aside the medium-size paintbrush he'd used and closing the bucket before he opened the dark gray. He had only two more brushes to choose from – he was not the type to mix colors, that was just _wrong_ – so he picked the larger of the two and started to work with the dark gray.

He got really into it, eventually pulling ridiculous poses and moves and getting just as much paint spattered all over himself and his clothes as he had gotten on the room around him. He got so into it – there were even sound effects – that he didn't hear Derek arrive. It wasn't until he heard steps on the stairs that he froze, paintbrush in hand, his back to the door. He heard Derek approaching and was too afraid to turn around and face the guy behind him who was about to be really, really mad. So he just stood there, with his hands at his sides and the paintbrush held tightly in one of them, covered in paint, and waited, clenching his teeth. He barely dared to breathe, wondering what Derek would do.

There was the sound of Derek inhaling deeply, and Stiles could practically feel the older guy shaking behind him. Yep. He was pissed. Stiles was _so_ dead.

And that's when it hit him. Literally. Derek slammed into him from behind, pretty much bulldozing him into the wall in front of them so hard that Stiles saw stars. Yeah. Okay. So his right shoulder and right hip and the entire right side of his torso were going to be seriously bruised tomorrow. Oh. Right. That was _if_ he survived this. Which, let's be honest, he probably wouldn't. He'd just kind of really pissed off Derek Hale. And Derek might not be an alpha anymore, but even though Scott was the alpha now Derek still had that kind of terrifying and dangerous I'm-in-charge look about him, and he was a no-nonsense kind of guy when he was angry. Great. Not for the first time, Stiles cursed himself for always feeling like he needed to test lines and push boundaries. Because he'd pretty much blown past a huge line here, and now he was going to pay for it.

He steeled himself for whatever blows might fall on his back, claws and all, but all of his breath left him with Derek grabbed ahold of his shoulder and whipped him around so that they were facing each other. Stiles' back was pressed painfully against the wall and Derek had him pinned, leaning over him and growling. And, yep, Derek was pissed. Definitely not so happy to see Stiles right now, if the glowing blue eyes and extra facial hair and the claws digging into Stiles' shoulder were anything to go by.

A million things went through Stiles' head, mostly desperate apologies and pleas for mercy that were too jumbled to make sense of. Just when he decided submitting and begging for his life would be the best way to go, Stiles' brain kicked into overdrive. Which essentially meant that he did exactly what he always did when he was scared shitless; that was, start babbling and use sarcasm as his only remaining defense.

"Aw, come on! Don't be such a sourwolf!" He could hardly believe those words were coming out of his mouth even as they did, and he swore he was not in control of his hand – which was still tightly clutching the paintbrush – when he lifted it and _booped_ Derek fucking Hale on the nose, smearing paint across the tip of it.

Stiles was pretty sure his eyes were wide fit to bug out of his head, and Derek looked just as surprised. Or as surprised as a pissed off werewolf shifted into beta form can look, anyways. Derek blinked twice, like he wasn't sure what had just happened. It was about that moment that Stiles became aware of the fact that Derek had literally pinned him to the wall _with his body_, and as a result some of the paint on Stiles had gotten on Derek, too. Stiles, being an idiot, of course chose this absurd moment to grin and say. "What do you think? Do you like my decorating?"

That seemed to snap Derek out of it enough that he shifted back, though his eyes were still blazing, even if they weren't glowing blue. "Stiles," he growled, "This is _my room_. This is_ my house_!"

Stiles just shrugged. "Well, thanks, Captain Obvious. Anything else you'd like to point out?"

Derek growled, and it was so close to feral and canine that it made Stiles' skin break out with goosebumps and shivers. "You painted it," he snarled.

Stiles didn't really know what else to say or do, so he just laughed nervously and somewhat hysterically. "Yeah, I guess I kind of did. Sorry about that, by the way."

Derek didn't seem placated. If anything, he just seemed more upset. Or more confused, because suddenly that was the only emotion evident on his face. He actually scrunched up his nose for a moment, staring at Stiles, and then he said, "You painted _me_." He didn't sound so angry anymore, just utterly confused and at a loss for what to think.

Stiles laughed again, though it was more of a soft chuckle this time. "Yes I did," he said, feeling the absolutely uncalled for need to giggle all of the sudden. He lifted the paintbrush again, this time swiping it to make a line down Derek's cheek. He wasn't sure if he was drunk on adrenalin or pure unadulterated terror or what, but he was pretty positive he was drunk or high on _something_. Then again, maybe it was just Derek. "Gray looks good on you," he said seriously, actually sounding a little tipsy.

Derek stared at him, searching his face for a moment. And then he did the thing with his eyes. That thing where his gaze flicked down to Stiles' mouth for just the briefest moment, and then back to his eyes again? Yeah. But Stiles caught it. And realized that his mouth was hanging open. So he shut it quickly, clearing his throat. Derek still looked pissed, but there was something else there. Something like want or confusion or maybe a mixture of both on his face. Whatever it was, it caused him to loosen his hold on Stiles, and the teen relaxed some more, sighing a little bit in relief. "Whew, dude, I thought you were gonna kill me there for a minute," Stiles said, carelessly smudging paint across Derek's shirt with the brush as he waved his hands emphatically. Then his eyes widened and his mouth fell open again when he realized what he'd done and when Derek looked down. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry. I didn't even mean to . . . I . . ." He just stood there, shrinking back against the wall and fearing for the worst.

Derek looked up from his shirt slowly, frowning at him. "Stiles," he said seriously, but all of the danger and threats seemed to have gone from his voice for now, "Why did you paint my room?"

Stiles shrugged weakly, suddenly feeling like the world's biggest dick – and not in the good way – for intruding on something so personal of Derek's. "Because I came looking for you and you were gone and the paint was just _there_" – he gestured rather limply to the buckets a few feet away – "and it was your room and I'm kind of really mad at you, so."

Derek arched an eyebrow, actually looking intrigued. "_You're_ mad at _me_?"

Stiles shrugged again, sighing. Now was really not the time to declare his undying love. But apparently his mouth had other plans, because suddenly he was staring hard at his feet and hurriedly mumbling, "Well you're just really annoyingly attractive, okay? And broody and dangerous looking and it shouldn't be as hot as it is but it really is and you're kind of way out of my league and OH MY GOD AM I SAYING THIS OUT LOUD I NEED TO SHUT UP NOW." He clamped his free hand over his mouth, staring up at Derek, completely horrified.

Derek cocked his head to the side, staring at Stiles for a long few moments before he reached up, grabbing Stiles' fingers and veritably peeling them off of Stiles' face. He dropped Stiles' hand nearly as soon as he touched it, for which Stiles was both thankful and disappointed. But then Derek did something that completely caught Stiles off guard. "Out of your league?" he muttered, like it was some sort of confusing puzzle or something. And then he was pinning Stiles against the wall again, only this time it was somehow gentler and more urgent all at once, and then his lips were there and they were against Stiles' and nothing else mattered because they were kissing. And it was sloppy and it tasted vaguely of paint because Stiles was pretty sure he'd gotten some on his lips from his hand and he dropped the paintbrush and made another splatter on the floor in order to fist his hands in Derek's shirt, but all in all it was one hell of a first kiss.

Afterwards Derek wouldn't stop staring at the floor and the ceiling and the walls and Stiles just kept feeling bad about the paint and hoping Derek didn't regret the kiss, because he'd pulled away first and now they were a few feet away from each other. After a few minutes of silence that Stiles felt like a heavy weight on his chest he finally managed to croak, "I'm sorry. I'll . . . I'll scrape it all off and help you paint it again or do it all for you, if you want."

Derek just turned to look at him, raising his eyebrows like he was confused again. "You don't like it?" he asked.

Stiles stared at him for a few seconds, utterly confused. "Um, what? I mean yeah, the splatters and things look pretty cool. But I messed up your walls, so . . ."

Derek just shook his head, and then he actually smiled. "I don't want to get rid of it," he said, and there was almost reverence in his voice. "I like it."

Stiles was lost for words, but before he could come back with any kind of witty quip or sarcastic retort Derek turned and walked out of the room. Stiles just stared after him, unable to make his feet move until Derek called over his shoulder, "I'm still putting in carpet and covering the floor, and the trim will still be white. But the rest of it's staying." Then he dropped his voice, but Stiles still heard when he murmured, "You should stay, too."

Stiles hadn't smiled in a long time, but at this rate he was pretty much fit to split his face in half he was grinning so widely.


	2. In the Walls of Our Hearts

**Derek is renovating the Hale House. He makes the mistake of leaving a few cans of paint untouched in one of the large rooms, and when he comes back Stiles is hurling paint at the walls and making a mess of everything. Anger, slamming against a wall, getting booped on the nose by a paintbrush, grinning, covered-in-paint Stiles, angry, snarling, also-covered-in-paint Derek, and a very hot and very sudden makeout session ensue.**

Derek doesn't hate Stiles. Maybe he hated Stiles back when they'd first met and Scott and Stiles _got Derek arrested and then made him a wanted fugitive, _but a lot has happened since them. Namely, a lot of near-death experiences and a lot of life saving and a lot of weird pack emotions getting in the way and making it so Derek couldn't just hate Scott and Stiles anymore. Now Scott was like a brother to him more than ever, but Stiles . . . Well, Stiles was something else altogether. Derek had _tolerated_ him until the alpha pack showed up. That was when Stiles proved to be more helpful and more caring than he'd ever been before, and for the first time since they'd met the word _friend_ echoed in Derek's head every time he heard Stiles' name. But that was nothing compared to the nogitsune. They say that fire reveals your true priorities, but a psychotic, homicidal fox demon can do that too, right?

It did for Derek, anyways. One moment, Stiles was just a friend. Just a member of the pack that Derek hadn't assigned a value to because he wasn't sure yet and because he'd never been bothered to before. But the next moment Chris Argent was talking about _putting Stiles down_ and suddenly Derek's eyes were burning with tears and his voice was quavering with emotion and his lip was trembling because he was trying not to cry. What? So Stiles was a pretty intelligent and generally helpful, valuable asset to the pack. To Derek. Great. But the moment Derek was faced with the idea of Stiles dying, of actually gunning down the seventeen year old because of the thing possessing him, well. Suddenly it was like everything came into focus. And everything was Stiles.

Derek wasn't the alpha anymore, but he and Isaac still had that kind of bond where Isaac would listen to him if Derek told him to do one thing or not to do another. Or maybe that was just their friendship actually developing, because Derek realized that sometimes the roles were reversed and he listened to Isaac, too. At any rate, Scott was the alpha now, and Derek was just a beta. Just one of the betas. It was interesting, how Scott hadn't bitten anyone but the nogitsune, and yet his pack was made up of people who were, quite possibly, more unswervingly loyal to him than any bitten betas could be. They'd been through some hellish things, but even Derek would die for Scott these days. And that was saying something. At any rate, Derek didn't have the responsibilities or the stress and concerns of the alpha anymore, which gave him time to focus on other things. Pack was still important to him, but it wasn't everything. No. Stiles was everything,

And with Kate suddenly returning and everything going to shit even _after_ they finally locked up the evil sonofabitch trickster that hurt Stiles, it just made things come more sharply into focus. So Kate was back, and she was some sort of werecat. They'd deal with it. As it was they were having weekly meetings discussing it and any other inevitable problems they might face in the future. Derek had dreamt of telling Stiles everything, of telling him about Kate being back and showing up and him never waking up, but that was just a dream. And after that he just _knew_ that this thing he had going for Stiles wasn't going to be the kind of thing that flares up for a while and then goes away. No, this _thing_ was going to stay. And that was terrifying.

It felt like Paige all over again. Except this time Derek was older and it wasn't his first love and he knew better than to just look through the love-tainted lenses that came naturally. He knew how to remove himself, how to look on as an outsider. He knew how bad for Stiles he would be, so he stayed away. And he got bitter. Because even after the nogitsune Stiles seemed so good and so pure. Stiles seemed to feel like he was darker now, like he'd lost his innocence, but it was still there, glimmering brightly and announcing itself to the world so much more fiercely now because Stiles was desperate to believe that he wasn't a demon of his own kind after what he'd done. And Derek got scared. Because every time he thought too hard about this thing with Stiles he started to think of Stiles as a younger version of himself, and of himself now as Kate. Because Kate had been older, hadn't she? And she'd come and taken what she wanted, and Derek had let her, because he was young and naïve and he thought it was love. All Derek could see when he thought too hard about it was himself doing the same thing to Stiles, and in a sick turn of events he imagined himself becoming the woman he hated most in this world. The woman who was, apparently, alive.

So he was bitter and angry, but more than that he was terrified, so terrified, of becoming Kate and doing to Stiles what she had done to him. So he kept his distance. He didn't change his behavior towards the teen. He ignored the changes and pretended not to notice when Stiles' lanky teenage form began to fill out into more of a man's, when Stiles' boyish round face turned more chiseled and his jawline became more defined, as Stiles' hair stayed long enough to properly card his fingers through and the muscles that had never been there before suddenly began to make themselves apparent on Stiles' body. But Derek didn't touch. He didn't get close. Hell, he barely even let himself think about it.

He tried to distance himself, not from the pack necessarily, but from Stiles. It was a constant battle between wanting to comfort Stiles after what had happened with the nogitsune and desperately wanting to be as far away from him as possible. And it worked, for a while. The pack was mostly made up of teenagers, and they all had school and lacrosse and homework and teenage lives to keep them busy. Or most of them did. Apparently Stiles was somehow exempt from all of those things because once he discovered that Derek was working on rebuilding and refurnishing the old house he started showing up and just hanging out. And he'd just be there, perched on the edge of a counter or sitting on the stairs or balancing on a stack of boards or leaning against the wall, and he didn't _do_ anything but talk. He talked to Derek about everything. About small things, at first, unimportant things. Things like school and the weather and the new couple with the baby that had just moved in three doors down from the Stilinskis. But then it got deeper. More personal. The more times Stiles showed up to watch Derek work the less awkward it became and the more Stiles opened up. He started talking about the things Derek knew he _needed_ to talk about, the nightmares and the guilt and the weight on his chest and the memories of screaming and writhing, locked inside his own body while on the outside he didn't make a sound. Derek knew Stiles needed to talk about those things, so he let him.

He would have asked for help, would have made some physical use of Stiles being there beyond giving Stiles someone to talk to, but he was still afraid. And now that Stiles had been coming so often and talking so much, there was something more between them, some kind of quiet trust. Derek didn't trust himself around Stiles, though. He didn't ask for help because he was afraid that an accidental brush of their arms while they carried things or a bump of their hands when Stiles handed him something would be all it took. He was afraid of losing control, of doing something they'd both regret. So he stayed quiet, stayed aloof. And he didn't ask for help. And Stiles just kept showing up and kept talking.

It was weeks, months, maybe, before Derek _did_ lose control. He had no idea it was coming, was actually feeling like maybe he was learning how to contain this thing he had for Stiles, to tamp it down and cover it up and smother it until it was barely there. But he was wrong.

He could smell the paint before he even stepped up onto the porch, and it made him frown. Because he'd never doubted that Stiles would help if he was asked to, but all Stiles had ever done was just _be there_ and _talk_. And suddenly he was painting? For a moment Derek thought maybe it was another pack member, but then he decided that no one else would ever dare walk right into Derek's house and start working on it without him. No one but Stiles. His suspicions were confirmed when he stepped inside and caught Stiles' scent, and noticed his shoes and his phone by the door. Why had he left his phone by the door? Even if he _was_ painting – which he definitely was – it wasn't so messy that something in his pocket was going to get soaked. Or was it?

Derek walked slowly up the stairs. He didn't know whether he wanted to sneak up on Stiles to see what he was doing or to just make his presence known already, but it was decided for him when he put his weight on a certain step that creaked beneath him. The sounds – was that paint being dumped or splattered or something? – suddenly stopped, so Stiles must have heard. Derek kept moving. He walked until he reached the empty doorway to his bedroom, and then he just stood there, staring. Because _holy shit_.

Stiles was standing in the middle of the room, dripping paintbrush in hand, with paint spatters and drips and smudges all over him. Derek didn't know what he felt about that, probably _want_ more than anything else, but it wasn't the paint on _Stiles_ that held his attention. Oh, no. It was the paint that was everywhere else. On the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, everywhere. Stiles seemed to have at least had the brains not to use the same brush for the different colors, but those colors were now all over the walls. It looked like Stiles had been hurling paint at the room around him. Derek stared, mouth falling open slightly as he inhaled the overpowering scent of paint and Stiles. And then he lost it.

White-hot fury filled him, because _who did Stiles think he was_? This was Derek's room, Derek's house, all that was left of Derek's old life and also the symbol of Derek's new life, and Stiles had painted it. Because he'd done it without Derek. In a completely different way than Derek would have wanted to. And because it was Stiles. Stiles, with his pale skin and dark hair and too-long eyelashes and his flailing limbs, who could never shut up and never stand still, who was suddenly standing so perfectly still and silent in the middle of the room. Stiles, who Derek wanted so badly but could never have.

Derek didn't know what happened. One minute he was standing in the doorway in shock and the next he had pinned Stiles to the wall and had shifted and was yanking Stiles' shoulder around so that the teen would look at him. Because he was going to _kill_ Stiles. Because not only was Stiles so annoying and desirable and forbidden and out of Derek's reach, but he had come in and marked _Derek's_ territory flippantly and as if it was his own. And then Stiles was being sarcastic and _painting_ Derek's nose, and Derek was so surprised and confused that he just stood there, blinking. "What do you think? Do you like my decorating?" he asked, actually _smiling_.

That stirred something in Derek's gut, but it wasn't anger anymore. Maybe it was acceptance of defeat, exhaustion, or just him giving up. He wasn't really sure, but it also felt like a victory, somehow. Derek realized that he wasn't in his beta form anymore, but he was still scowling at Stiles. "Stiles," he said, "This is _my room_. This is _my house_!"

"Well thanks, Captain Obvious. Anything else you'd like to point out?"

Derek thought the anger was rising in him again, and that must have been it because an actual growl ripped its way out of his throat. "You painted it."

And Stiles was laughing. Laughing. In that manic, I-think-I'm-about-to-die-and-this-is-terrifying-and-I-might-start-crying kind of hysterical way. "Yeah, I guess I kind of did. Sorry about that, by the way."

Derek stared at him, unable to comprehend. But then he blinked and he felt more confused than anything else, scrunching up his nose at the unfamiliar layer of paint there and the intensity of the smell in his nose when it was so close. "You painted _me_."

"Yes I did." And . . . was that . . . a _giggle_? Did Stiles just _giggle_?

Derek sniffed at him, wondering if maybe he was wasted or something, but he found no hint of any kind of foreign substance in or around Stiles' body. Just Stiles.

And then _Just Stiles_ was saying, "Gray looks good on you," and he sounded so serious and completely sober that Derek thought he might get whiplash.

What? Derek realized he was still holding Stiles too firmly and loosened his hold, flashing back to the first time he'd ever slammed Stiles against a wall. In Stiles' room, ironically enough, but that was back when they pretty much hated each other. Somehow, though, even back then, Derek had been distracted momentarily by the curve of Stiles' lips as he held him there, and now he realized that his eyes had dipped down and he was staring at Stiles' mouth. He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to look at Stiles' eyes instead.

"Whew, dude, I thought you were gonna kill me there for a minute." Stiles' voice broke through Derek's thoughts, bring him back to reality and the present. And then Derek felt the wetness through his shirt and looked down to where Stiles had just smudged paint across his chest. And it didn't matter because Derek had worn this shirt intending to paint in it anyways, but Stiles didn't seem to realize that because suddenly he was cowering back against the wall and pleading and desperately saying, "Oh my god! I'm so sorry. I didn't even mean to . . . I . . ." And he just trailed off, looking like he might cry or pee his pants. Probably both.

Derek just looked up, frowning. Not at Stiles so much as at himself. Because the look on Stiles' face was causing Derek physical pain, and it hurt him to know that he put that expression there, that Stiles was so afraid of him. And that's when he knew. Knew that he and Stiles are nothing like Kate and him were when he was in high school. Because Stiles is nowhere as naïve as Derek was. Because Derek isn't an evil bitch. Because Stiles wouldn't let himself be taken advantage of like that. But more than anything, because Derek's first priority is Stiles' safety, and he'd die before he saw Stiles hurt. Derek would never hurt Stiles. Derek was not Kate. He just stood there for a moment, astounded by this realization. Then, slowly, he searched Stiles' face. "Stiles, why did you paint my room?" His voice was quieter now, genuinely curious. He _had_ to know if this thing he had for Stiles was the kind of thing Stiles could possibly have for him too.

Stiles shrugged, looking like he'd just crashed into a brick wall of guilt and looking like all of the happiness and pride had gone out of him. "Because I came looking for you and you were gone and the paint was just _there_, and it was your room and I'm kind of really mad at you, so."

Derek's frown deepened, but then he quirked an eyebrow, disbelieving and feeling the absurd desire to laugh. "_You're_ mad at _me_?" In Derek's mind it seemed pretty obvious that it should be the other way around. And yet, somehow, it wasn't that way. Derek wasn't mad anymore, just intrigued, and Stiles did genuinely seem to be angry about something, even if it was hidden now beneath all of the guilt and regret rolling off of him.

And then Stiles was talking and looking down and _blushing_ and Derek just stared at him because it was all he could do and Stiles was saying, "Well you're just really annoyingly attractive, okay? And broody and dangerous looking and it shouldn't be as hot as it is but it really is and you're kind of way out of my league and OH MY GOD AM I SAYING THIS OUT LOUD I NEED TO SHUT UP NOW."

Derek flinched when Stiles stared yelling the last part, but he recovered quickly. Stiles had covered his mouth with his hand, and it looked like he was trying to superglue it there with the power of his mind. Derek stared at him, tilting his head to the side and studying for a moment before he reached up and pried Stiles' fingers away, dropping them as soon as Stiles gave in because there was nothing Derek wanted more then to twine those fingers with his own and he knew he would if he held on a moment longer. "Out of your league?" he heard himself ask. But all he could focus on was Stiles' mouth, which was slightly open as if in shock or surprise or both, and Derek couldn't hold onto the last frayed thread of control he had left. And he didn't even try. He just let it go and let himself lose it, let himself press Stiles up against the wall again and let himself lean forward until their lips were touching and let himself kiss Stiles until neither of them could think straight or stand up properly or breathe evenly.

Derek was the one to pull away, not because he wanted to, but because he was still afraid of hurting Stiles. He shrugged out of Stiles' hold and turned around, taking three steps towards the door and then making himself stop. He couldn't bring himself to face Stiles again. Not yet. But then he looked at the walls around him, and he remembered the anger that had coursed through his veins when he slammed Stiles against the wall, and he knew that if it was anyone else, he _would_ have killed them, or at least tried to. He'd lost control, but he didn't hurt Stiles. And it all made sense now. Because Stiles was his anchor. Because he loved Stiles, and he could never bring himself to hurt Stiles, even when he was so close to the edge and when he'd lost control completely. So he stood there, staring at the room around him and actually smiling to himself because _he'd been wrong_. About himself and about Stiles, and about what would happen if this thing he had for Stiles became an actual thing they had _with_ each other instead of just _for_ each other.

And then Stiles interrupted his thoughts and said, "I'm sorry. I'll . . . I'll scrape it all off and help you paint it again or do it all for you, if you want."

Derek _did_ turn to face him then, surprised and confused. "You don't like it?"

Stiles stared at him for a few seconds, looking like he didn't understand. "Um, what? I mean yeah, the splatters and things look pretty cool. But I messed up your walls, so . . ."

Derek didn't remember making the decision to do it or to say what he did, but suddenly he was shaking his head and cracking a smile. "I don't want to get rid of it." He glanced around, nodding to himself as he did. "I like it."

Stiles looked like his brain might have just short-circuited, and Derek smugly decided to chalk it up to the kiss and the fact that he'd just _complimented_ Stiles. Then he turned around and walked the rest of the way out of the room, no longer feeling like the air was tense between them. "I'm still putting in carpet and covering the floor, and the trim will still be white. But the rest of it's staying," he called back over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs. Just before he reached them he lowered his voice. More for himself than for Stiles, he whispered, "You should stay, too."

And he did.


End file.
